Daddy's Little Superhero
by CertifiedOtaku593
Summary: Christopher stumbles in on his drunk father and learns being a super hero is bad for your health. NONCON Domicocest *My first story*


**Daddy's Little Superhero **

**FrankXChris**

"Oh, this is so fuckin' cool."

Christopher, now Red Mist, put the finishing touch of his costume, the black mask, over his eyes, gazing at his reflection in the mirror. He smirked at his red and black leather costume, the red and black wig he wore and the long red cape that hung from his shoulders. His plan to capture Kick-Ass for his father was starting and he had a good feeling about it. Chris stepped back, moving his arms and legs experimentally, relieved to find he could move easily. He had had the costume professionally made and was loving every aspect of it, down to the bold "M" insignia on the front of his costume. Adjusting his mask, he ran from the brightly lit bathroom towards his father's office, his long cape fluttering majestically behind him.

He didn't bother knocking… that was his first mistake. Busting into his father's study had landed Chris in trouble before, but the excitement overruled the possible consequences.

"Dad! Check it out!" Chris spun around once before realizing his father's condition.

Frank Domico was swaying slightly in his chair, his eyes glazed and unfocused. Chris then noticed the faint smell of alcohol in the room. He started towards his father, trying to keep his voice even. He hated when his father was drunk, even more than when he did cocaine. It was just in the way he acted and treated others. Don't get him wrong, Chris knew how cruel his father could be. He'd seen the results of the 'meetings' he and his workers attended. It usually involved some low-life thug losing a lot of blood. But Chris was ok with that, in fact, he couldn't wait to join his father's side and rule their lumber company and drug underground with an iron fist. But even so, Chris knew his father was more violent when he was drunk. The best way to approach him would be humble and slow. So, Chris edged forward, his hands outstretched, palms open, his voice low.

"Dad…? You feeling alright? Do you want to go to bed maybe?"

Frank started to mumble incoherently, sitting up a little straighter and glaring at his son like he had never seen him before.

"Who the fuck are you?"

"Dad..." Chris started, a little taken back by the question. "It's me. Christopher. Your son."

"You liar..." Frank struggled to stand, continuing the glare. "My son doesn't dress like that. He doesn't have hair like that." He motioned towards Chris' red and black wig shakily.

"Dad. This is my plan to catch Kick-Ass… You agreed to it… Don't you remember at all?"

Frank was silent, staring at the ground for a while before answering.

"Oh yeah….."

Chris rolled his eyes, walking over to his father. Assuming it was safe to approach his drunken father was Chris' second mistake. As soon as the boy was within arm's length, his father grabbed the front of his suit, yanking him forward. Chris let out an involuntary gasp of surprise, his eyes widening. Frank was breathing heavily, swaying dangerously before falling back into his large chair, dragging Chris with him. Chris sprawled on his father's chest, trying to push away from him and get away from his horrible alcohol breath. But Frank held tight, chuckling softly.

"Dad! What the hell?!" Chris groaned.

"D-Don't call me 'Dad'. Call me 'Boss'." Frank smirked watching his utterly confused son try to stand.

Chris gave up trying to push himself up as his father's arm snaked its way around his waist. Instead he froze, looking up at his father's face with terrified eyes. "Da-… I mean, uh, Boss? What are you doing?"

"Shhhhhh. You work for me now, super hero. You don't talk, got it? You do what I say, GOT IT?" Frank tightened his grip on the front of his son's costume.

Chris gulped, deciding it might be safer to play along. He nodded, trying not to winch as his father pushed him backward, his back colliding with the edge of the large oak desk. Frank sat back in his chair, looking over the boy in front of him before muttering.

"Take it off."

"Wh-what?" Chris looked at the older man confused.

"The costume. Take it off."

"A-alright, uh, boss. I'll go take it off now." He straightened up, turning to go before a vice-like grip closed on his wrist, pulling him back.

"No no. Take it off now. Here" Frank growled

Chris had watched enough movies to know where this was going and he panicked. Rushing for the door, his journey was cut short as some kind of heavy object hit him square in the back. Whatever it was, it hurt like HELL. Chris fell to the floor, gasping in shock and pain. He could hear his father's heavy footsteps echo behind him. He glanced up to see Frank step over him and fumble with the lock on the door, eventually getting it shut. Chris' heart raced and he attempted to crawl away from the drunken man above him. But suddenly Frank was above him, dragging Chris up by the cape. Coughing, Chris flung out wildly, luckily hitting Frank's arm. Frank let his son go, grabbing his arm in pain. Like a frightened bird, Chris dove for the sliding glass doors that led to the balcony. If all else failed, he'd lock himself out there until his father left or calmed down. Boots slipping on the marble floor, Chris charged for the glass doors, fumbling with the handle before realizing they were already locked. As he searched for the lock, Chris let out an 'OOMPH' as Frank practically tackled him against the door, pressing him against the glass. The doors shook and Chris vaguely wondered why his mother didn't hear any of this…

"Now then, super hero. No more running. I hold the power here." Frank's voice was dripping with alcohol, hot breath against his son's cheek.

Chris whimpered as his father's hands wound their way around his waist again, fumbling with the 'M' belt buckle and tossing it to the side. He shut his eyes as the harsh sound of a dress pant's zipper was pulled down, his father's breathing beating against his ear, a small growl forming in the back of Frank's throat. Chris tried with all his might to separate himself from the situation, to think of anything else. He pictured himself anywhere but there, somewhere safe. What he kept coming back to was a memory of his family trip to the Bahamas. The scorching sun and blazing sand coupled with the soothing cool water. His mother's laughter floating on the breeze, the slow sway of the palm trees on the Domico family private beach. His father… No, his father wasn't in his vision. He was off on some 'business trip', as usual. Chris was alone with his mother and whatever servants had been hired to take care of them. Chris smiled; he could almost feel his mother's safe embrace, her whispers of 'Everything is going to be alright.'

He was dragged back to reality as a sudden chill met his lower half. Frank had managed in his drunken state to pull Chris' pants down to his ankles, his own pants gone. Chris shivered with sick anticipation as the older man pressed against him, Chris' chest colliding with the glass.

"You'd better relax or this is gonna hurt a lot more." Frank drawled.

"Please…please stop…" Chris begged, his voice shaking. His fingers slid over the glass, trying to hold onto anything solid.

Positioning his hips, Frank thrust into his unprepared son with a growl. Chris cried out, his voice bouncing back on him from the smooth, unyielding glass. Pain ripped through his back as if he was being ripped in two. He could feel a sticky wet heat dripping down his legs as ruby red drops fell onto the white marble floor. Tears welled up in his eyes, dragging down his cheeks, leaving little trails of black from the make-up around his eyes. Frank panted like a dog in heat, his son's helpless cries only exciting him more. He thrust faster, the blood adding a gruesome lubrication. Chris shuddered, gasping for air. He could feel his father moving inside of him, every thrust and jerk of his hips. The pain started to subside, but was no less noticeable. Sweat mingled with his tears and Chris rested his forehead against the cold glass. Frank moved faster, his breath heavy against Chris' neck. Frank spun the younger boy around, pinning his arms above his head, never ceasing his movements. Chris shut his eyes as his father leaned close.

"Look at me, damn it! I want you to LOOK AT ME!"

Chris opened his eyes reluctantly, gazing at his father with pain and desperation. That one gaze of utter submission and vulnerability proved too much for Frank to handle. He came long and hard inside of his son, moaning. Chris shivered, saying nothing but whimpering softly as the hot fluid filled his entrance. Opaque white mixed with the blood dripping down his thighs, staining his costume.

Satisfied, Frank Domico let go of the broken boy beneath him, letting the crippled body fall to the floor. He straightened his tie, pulled up his pants and turned to leave the room, ignoring the hoarse sobs coming from the son that once idolized him.


End file.
